


She doesn't mind.

by HexingQueen



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I just want them to be happy, this is just really sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 10:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HexingQueen/pseuds/HexingQueen
Summary: "She hates it, she says.She hates it, but she doesn't mind."He tells her every day, and, sometimes, she says it back.





	She doesn't mind.

He tells her every day.

Not always outright, true. Sometimes it lies in smirks and hair ruffles, in genuine smiles and, occasionally, the offer of some form of sugar.

Still. He lets her know.

More often than not, she doesn’t make it obvious that she feels the same – she rolls her eyes at his jokes, frowns at his smiles, turns down the food.

“You can’t just give me cake and expect me to start confessing my sins,” She retorts, “That’s not how it works.”

He knows that’s not how she works, but it’s worth a try.

Either way, he lets her know.

In the mornings, when he brushes her hair and ties it back, raven locks curling round his fingers, he tells her. She usually responds with a sigh, or a shrug.

A smile.

The only reason he can do her hair, she says, is because it’s _far_ easier than doing it herself. She used to, every day, he responds, so it can’t be _that_ hard.

She tells him to shut up.

As always, he obliges.

Of course, if anyone else told him to shut up, he’d do the exact opposite on purpose.

When Robin tells him to be quiet, he tells her to lighten up. Nowi he tells to take her own advice. Sully he tells to get a life.

Tharja, he lazily smiles at.

She hates it, she says.

She hates it, but she doesn’t mind.

He isn’t quite sure himself how someone telling him to shut his face is so enamouring. How being quite literally threatened with newt’s eyeballs makes him smile. How, somehow, lavender eyes narrowing is so… perfect.

Being told to shut up isn’t exactly an ‘I love you’, but it’s the next best thing.

Lon’qu doesn’t understand when Gaius tries to explain why he puts up with it.

“Women.” Comes his reply, vague and uninterested.

Gaius doesn’t mind, of course. He wouldn’t really expect anybody to understand something he doesn’t quite grasp himself. He’s not sure how to put into words that, when she rolls her eyes when saying it, her lashes curl upwards. How she flicks her hair over her shoulder. How the ghost of a smile appears on her lips, unnoticed by her.

Cherished by him.

He tells her in the middle of the day, too, in the mess hall, or on a march, or in their tent.

By that time, she’s over her morning sleepiness, and the ‘shut up’ comes in the form of huffs, or frowns, or soft “not here”s under her breath.

He doesn’t particularly care where he tells her.

He knows, really, that she doesn’t mind.

She is, he muses, beginning to run out of excuses.

When she links her fingers with his in the middle of the day, it’s because her hands are cold. She fixes his hair because it was bothering her. She leans against him because she’s tired.

He doesn’t mind.

It does, however, make it exceedingly difficult for him to not respond tenfold. To pull her closer, run his hands through hair so well brushed, press his lips to the porcelain skin of her cheek.

He knows, if he tried, he’d probably end up with frogs’ eyes for a week.

But that’s okay. He doesn’t mind.

On the days where she rests against him with a sigh, when her eyes are shadowed by dark, tired circles, too long spent inking spells by candlelight in the early hours, her protests are, quite frankly, pathetic; he doesn’t care, he tells her, if someone sees, because she’s _tired_ , and cold, and he loves her, and everyone knows it anyway, so why bother hiding it?

She supposes it’s fine, in that case.

Just that once.

He tells her at night, when hairbands are carelessly discarded across the room, when ginger hair falls over his face and midnight strands fall over hers.

Ylisse is cold compared to Plegia, she says.

He supposes that’s why she snakes her arms round him when she goes to sleep.

For warmth.

Of course.

Though she likes to stay up late, to use whatever mystical power there supposedly is at midnight to curse whoever she disliked that day, to trace patterns in ink and read worn paperback books, sometimes, she lets him convince her to go to sleep at a decent hour.

When the sky is black and the moonlight the only way to see, when she finally lets herself relax in his hold, he buries his face in her hair, or the crook of her neck, and tells her, over and over, so she won’t forget.

Sometimes, she runs her fingers through thick, auburn locks, a gentle whisper escaping her throat, and she tells him she loves him too.

He is left with the flush of his cheeks, the smile on his lips and the soft, steady beat of her heart, to fall asleep to.

**Author's Note:**

> I should be studying  
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated! <3


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